


Child's Play

by SkywardGeek



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Johnlock, Hurt, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock, Injury, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Injury, No Sex, POV Third Person, Possible Spoilers, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkywardGeek/pseuds/SkywardGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The steady sound of dripping blood was so calming. A hand covered in a black lace glove carefully withdrew the blade from the new victim. New Villain. Fresh droplets fell onto the hard concrete ground. The blade was a beautiful thing, with an iridescent pearl handle and exquisite filigree inlaid into the blade. Ornamental, so rare an item that it felt perfect for its purpose. Villains should only exist in fairy tales.</p><p>A new villain emerges and foul play occurs on the streets of London. A fairy tale utopia is taking place but things are not ending happily ever after for the supposed villains. Time for the Consulting Detective and his Blogger to bring back reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once Upon a Time

# Chapter 1 – Once Upon a Time

_The steady sound of dripping blood was so calming. A hand covered in a black lace glove carefully withdrew the blade from the new victim. New Villain. Fresh droplets fell onto the hard concrete ground. The blade was a beautiful thing, with an iridescent pearl handle and exquisite filigree inlaid into the blade. Ornamental, so rare an item that it felt perfect for its purpose. Villains should only exist in fairy tales._

“Sherlock, fancy a cuppa?” called out the warm friendly voice of John Watson.  
Only the wistful, longing sound of a violin replied.  
“I’ll take that as a yes,” John chuckled.  
He had learned to accept the eccentricities of his roommate a long time ago. Flicking the kettle on, John began adding teabags and milk to the two of his favourite mugs.  
“Did you forget to buy milk again? We’re running low.”  
As expected no response. His roommate was far too engrossed in thought. A buzz sounded from the living room as a phone vibrated on a table. The violin stopped immediately.  
“Sure, he can hear the buzz of a phone but not me shouting at him,” John muttered.  
“John, we have a case John. Gary just texted us.”  
It was pointless correcting the error he made. John, carrying the fresh cups of tea, walked into the living room and was immediately confronted by his tall, towering roommate. He staggered backwards, startled by the looming presence of his flatmate and best friend.  
“Christ’s sake Sherlock, do you want me to spill all the tea down myself?” he asked rhetorically, jumper soaking.  
Sherlock paid no attention to his comment, deep blue eyes alight with passion and joy.  
“John, a woman has been found dead in an empty office building. We need to go there. Grab your coat.”  
And with that he had bounded out the door, a literal spring in his step at the prospect of a murder. John was quick in pursuit, tailing Sherlock as he strode out onto Baker Street. They hailed a cab in seconds, and then they were zooming across London as fast as the traffic would let them.

“That took bloody ages guys,” Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade commented.  
“Blame the traffic, nightmare trying to get anywhere at 5pm on a Friday night.”  
Sherlock had no time for this polite chit chat, already ducking under the police tape and heading straight over to the crime scene.  
“Sherlock, wait a second.”  
John trotted after his friend, catching up just as Sherlock stooped down to examine the body. Mimicking this action John began to examine it too. There was a lot of blood around the feet, chest cavity cut open, heart stabbed. Repeatedly and violently by the look of the decimated body part. The face was mutilated, especially across the eyes.  
“Sherlock, what do you make of this?”  
“Take off her shoes.”  
Carefully John pulled off the left black heel, blood dripping repulsively off it. All the toes on the left foot had been cut off.  
“Now the right please John.”  
The right shoe now eased gently off. Blood poured out the shoe in a slightly congealed mess. The victim’s heel had been shredded and nearly hacked off.  
“Sharp knife by the look of these,” he indicated towards the cuts across the eyes, “very sharp. Hasn’t seen much, if any, use. Chest cavity cut open, killer is clearly not squeamish; we are looking at someone who is used to the sight of blood. Intelligent too, knew clearly where to cut to access the heart. No indication of sexual assault. This attack was personal. The attack to the heart, clear. Rage and passion. What do we know about the victim?”  
This was all said at alarming speed within 3 minutes of approaching the body.  
“23, female, name of Sophie Flynn. Drivers Licence says she lives two streets from here.”  
“Is that all Gareth?”  
“Greg” coughed John under his breath  
“Is that all Greg?” Sherlock corrected himself.  
“Background search shows nothing of note.”  
Sherlock pulled out his phone and begins typing frantically.  
“Here,” he said, thrusting the phone under the D.I.’s and the Doctor’s noses.  
“She recently got engaged to Harold Grogan, was meant to be at a work presentation today which started at four. Her friend posted on her wall. Contact the friend, see if she knows anything,” Sherlock handed his phone to Lestrade, open on the victim’s Facebook, “other than that, she recently visited a designer clothes shop, had a mochaccino and croissant for breakfast, possibly from Costa although it was more likely Starbucks. She has a doctor’s appointment, but she was really nervous about it.”  
“Wow,” John breathed, “how did you know that?”  
With the usual condescending roll of the eyes that John was well accustomed to Sherlock started pointing out the minutest of details.  
“Designer Clothes shop was simple, brochure in her bag, splash of champagne on the sleeve from a stumble, pay day recently. She was browsing, most likely looking at this new pair of heels,” Sherlock opened the brochure on a folded down page, “mochaccino is clear, the foam from the drink is dried around her mouth, attempts to wipe it away failed. Chocolate sauce was left on her hands, probably from when she added sugar. The croissant, the easiest of all. Crumbs, John, crumbs. Flakes of pastry are everywhere. From Starbucks as there are at 3 between her house and her work, but Costa is out of the way. Surely you know about the doctor’s appointment though.”  
Sherlock looked expectantly at John. John moved closer to the body. Suddenly John’s eyes widened, the shock echoed through his body language.  
“Phantom pregnancy,” he whispered, Sherlock nodding fervently. “That explains what she was nervous about… But how could you tell she was nervous? Wait no I see. The nail biting.”  
The victim’s nails were bitten so far back it looked painful. They were not left for even a single moment so they had no chance to grow back. Sherlock nodded slowly, thoughtfully.  
“Question the doctor, ask the friend, speak to the fiancé.”  
With that parting note Sherlock was on his feet and moving fast. John leapt up and sprinted after him.

A week later and the case had moved no further. The friend had surprisingly little to say about her. The doctor knew nothing of the phantom pregnancy, it would have been her first scan. The fiancé mentioned that his wife-to-be was pregnant, he proposed to her shortly after finding out. That explains the nerves. Fake pregnancy, gets engaged, not pregnant. Must have been fearful he would break it off. But something still didn’t add up. Why were the toes cut off? And why was the heel of her foot sliced off? Why were her eyes slashed at? Sherlock was sure he was missing something. Something he had never known or had deleted long ago. It was frustrating for the detective. Backtracking everything in his mind, looking for any detail stored away that might be of some help.  
“Still nothing,” enquired John, gazing at the detective.  
“I am missing something. I need some.”  
“No.”  
“Get me some.”  
“We’ve been over this Sherlock. No cigarettes, and you are already using two nicotine patches. I’m not allowing a third.”  
Sherlock resigned himself to sulking, flipping his soft towelling dressing gown over his body as he turned over on the sofa, back to the Doctor. This was promptly followed by a roll of the eyes from John and an exasperated sigh. Weirdly, John knew the feeling. He felt like this was vaguely familiar, especially the feet. It seemed so strange. He brushed the feeling off, but decided to review old cases. Something might trigger his memory. It was at times like this that John especially admired Sherlock’s mind palace. Everything important, every memory and bit of knowledge squirrelled away, able to be called forth in a nanosecond. John took his laptop to the desk and opened his blog. The unsolved cases would be a good place to start. Lost in thought for a moment he stared out the window. A young girl was walking by, calmly. John’s brow furrowed, odd that she was calm. She was pursued by four boys, all throwing things at her. John pushed open the window and yelled.  
“OI, Stop throwing things this instant.”  
The booming voice echoed across the street. The boys, barely more than nine or ten, looked up and then bolted away. The young girl, roughly the same age, looked up and blinked.  
“Thank you sir,” She said politely.  
She bobbed a curtsey, only fitting when she was dressed in full Victorian attire, and continued walking. It was like the incident had never happened to her. John watched her until she rounded the corner then turned back to his blog.


	2. An Orphaned Girl

# Chapter 2 – An Orphaned Girl

_No one ever notices. All the better. How long has it been? Forty minutes. At_ _400°c. The body will be well and truly charred by now. Switching the oven off, a black laced hand pulled open the oven door. No resistance. A fluid motion and then a knife plunged deep in. Easy enough. Another villain cut from the tale._

Sherlock rushed out of the flat, eyes ablaze.  
“I solved it, it was the lodger,” he yelled over his shoulder before slamming the door of 221B.  
John laughed to himself. It was only Sherlock who could get this excited over a murderer. They had only had the case twenty minutes, and yet Sherlock solved it without having to leave the flat. He pulled his laptop and started typing up another blog entry. He glanced up and looked at the clock (balanced precariously on top of unstable books and files), 4:27pm. Seems as good a time as any for a cuppa. The doctor pulled himself out of his warm armchair, walked into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle (after thoroughly examining it and its contents). Ringing from the street below, he could hear the yells of children. Jeering and taunting. He ran immediately to the window. It was the Victorian girl again. The boys were back. John grabbed his coat and ran down the stairs.  
“OI, I told you to clear off last time.”  
He stormed up to them, giving them a glare that made frightened and scuttle off. He turned to the girl, who had walked off. He could see stones littering the concrete. Blood was dripping onto the path, through her platinum blonde ringlets.  
“Excuse me miss, please wait.”  
The doctor in him couldn’t let her walk through the streets of London like that.  
“I am a doctor, please let me take a look at your back.”  
She turned slowly, and stared at the doctor.  
“That would be most appreciated, thank you sir.”

He sat her in the chair usually reserved for clients. Gently he pulled her hair away to look at the damage. The rocks thrown left bruises and cuts all down her back, nothing too serious.  
“This may sting a bit,” John muttered, as he dabbed antiseptic on her wounds.  
“Why were they throwing rocks at you?”  
“They don’t approve of the way I dress. Nor do the teachers,” she said curtly.  
“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but have you told your parents?”  
“I haven’t got any.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Why? It wasn’t your fault.”  
She sounded so matter-of-fact, stating it all blandly. John finished bandaging her wounds, a sad smile forced across his lips.  
“If you ever need anyone to talk to, well you can come and speak to me.”  
“Thank you doctor, but there is really no need. I’ve been managing on my own for-”  
“John, new case. Fresh body, come now.”  
The detective flew up the stairs with alarming speed. Rushing into the room he grabbed John’s arm and pulled. John shook him off with ease. He bent down until his eyes were level with the little Victorian girl’s.  
“Look, I’m sorry. I have to go. Please stop by for tea soon, I want to check on the marks, make sure they are healing okay.”  
“Thank you doctor, but as I told you I am fine.”  
She curtseyed again and walked down the stairs. Sherlock was once more tugging at his arm.  
“John, it is another victim. The heart again. John, don’t you see? We have a serial killer on our hands.”  
Sherlock’s eyes were lit and focussed, joy dancing in them like fire. John was on his feet, following the footsteps of his detective.

They arrived at the crime scene, a rather picturesque looking bakery. Lestrade walked up to them.  
“Another one boys. Social worker. Hana Kinomoto. Her sister owns the bakery. The sister said she left her in charge over lunch, as Hana had the day off and the cover had called in sick. Brace yourself for this.”  
Lestrade took a step back and pulled open the door of an industrial sized oven. A charred hand stuck to the door, burnt and singed. Lestrade’s team carefully removed the body. John edged closer.  
“Stab to the heart again, post mortem this time.” The raw red flesh starkly contrasting the charcoal skin. “Rigor mortis fits time frame, dead for about 5-6 hours. Happened over lunch, between 12 and 1.”  
“Cleaner than the last job, no blood. Time limits, the killer had somewhere to be. Couldn’t draw attention to themselves, yet couldn’t not stab the heart. Ritual. It is odd though, isn’t it John? Neither victim shows any signs of being forced into this. No bruising beyond the norm.”  
“Could be using a gun?”  
“Then why not shoot them? Why stab them through the chest?”  
“Quieter perhaps?”  
“Hmmm possibly,” pondered the detective.  
“Doesn’t seem quite right though does it?”  
Sherlock was somewhat shocked at how astute John was becoming. It didn’t seem right.  
“The killer is already having to hide a knife, a sharp knife no less, about their person. They wouldn’t want the extra hassle of carrying a gun, especially as guns are bulkier, more likely to be seen. They use some other method. No drugs or alcohol found in the last victim, and assuming none will be found in this one. A method of luring people over. The stab to the heart is ritual, they cannot go without it. It is their mark, a calling card.”  
Why kill the victim in an oven? It seemed so unusual. Sherlock inspected it all over but there was no slip up, nothing to give the killer away. You could only tell so much about a killer, you could always tell more about them from their mistakes.  
“Sherlock, what do you make of this?”  
John was staring at the floor, Sherlock followed his gaze.  
“Crumbs John. Bread and Cake most likely as they have hardened. We are in a bakery.”  
It was all John could do to prevent himself rolling his eyes at the detective.  
“But they lead right from the door to the oven?”  
Sherlock followed the trail, and although it had been scuffed about by the clumsy forensics team (Anderson really shouldn’t be allowed out of the house, lest his idiocy be contagious), discovering that John was right. He looked up quizzically.  
“Is this important?”  
“I think we have a clue.”

“But John, why do some crumbs matter so much?”  
“I’m guessing you always deleted fairy tales?”  
“I was never told them.”  
John was riffling through boxes in his room, pulling out book after book. The Hobbit, Lord of The Rings, tattered Harry Potter books, a Series of Unfortunate Events, a really old Beano annual, then at last.  
“Aha”  
John sounded triumphant, causing Sherlock to peer around the doorframe he was leaning against. Despite the book strewn floor, the room was clean and orderly. Military style. John got off his knees, clasping a leather bound book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will update soon, but need to finish A2s first. Sorry guys.


	3. Trapped in a Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took me forever to post this one, I just wasn't especially happy with it (too short) but chapter 4 will be coming v. soon.

# Chapter 3 – Trapped in a Tower

_The hair was gossamer silk, but there was plenty of time. The black lace hand fumbled as it braided the golden strands. Blood was slowly seeping across the floor, discolouring the radiant blonde to a bright scarlet._

“But why fairy tales? And what has that got to do with feet?”  
“Look Sherlock, it mirrors the treatment of the witch in Hansel and Gretel. I showed you the fairy tale. Witch in an oven. Bread crumbs.”  
Sherlock was pacing up and down the tiny flat, hands waving in frustration. Why the feet? Pacing, pacing constantly.   
“Sherlock, Christ. Sit down.”  
John pulled out his laptop and began searching: Fairy Tales with cut off toes. The first few results immediately showed Cinderella.  
“Sherlock, I found it. Cinderella. The original had the step sister cutting off her toes to fit into the slippers. Eurgh grim, the other step sister cut off her heel.”  
“But why fairy tales?”  
The mobile on the desk beeped.  
“Sherlock, text?”  
Grabbing the phone, Sherlock frowned.  
“New body, whoever it is they are getting faster. Office block downtown.”

“Eurwen, 22, works in the corner shop down the street. Recently moved.”  
That isn’t all there is to it. Fairy tales must come into play. Sherlock wandered around, following a trail of gold. Eventually it stopped at an open window. Sherlock could just about catch the conversation John and Lestrade were having.   
“Sixth floor, this floor was closed off for renovation. Lack of funding put it on halt. Been empty for past three weeks. Body is approximately two days old. Seems to be from Wales.”  
“Swansea,” Sherlock called over his shoulder.   
“Stabbing to the heart was cause of death.”  
More research was needed. Sherlock turned back and approached the figure on the ground. Recently pregnant, judging by the stretch marks. No symptoms of Children though. Victim did not look tired, no stains on any of her clothing, phone contain lots of messages and photos of nights out. Time stamped recently, almost 500 photos in the past week.  
“She gave her children up for adoption, wishing to continue having fun.”  
How did this relate to fairy tales? Sherlock had read that infernal book cover to cover. Nothing even closely resembled a fairy tale. Sherlock called John over.  
“John, there is hair everywhere. Strands of it all over the floor. It ends at that window. The window only looks out onto an alley.”  
Peering out of the window, Sherlock softly muttered an ‘Oh’ of surprise. The hair had been woven into a delicate ladder, thrown from the window. It barely made it to the next floor but it wasn’t used for that. Not an escape route. The hair did not appear to be twisted awkwardly, no dirt or traces of it being pulled out of the careful weave. Symbolic. Now it seemed more like a fairy tale. John eventually made it over.  
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel. Let down your hair. Don’t you see John? Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel, now Rapunzel.”  
“I don’t understand”  
Sherlock sighed, but caught himself as he saw the look of irritation flit across John’s face.  
“She targets the villains in the story.”  
“Rapunzel was never a villain.”  
Sherlock pulled out his phone and begin tapping at the keys heatedly.   
“The step sister tried to deceive the prince, fake pregnancy to get marriage. Social Worker, takes away children like the witch did. But this Rapunzel one is different. Aha!” Sherlock thrust the phone under John’s nose, “it mimics the mother who gave up Rapunzel. She gave up a daughter for something she thought was more important, a type of lettuce she craved. This woman gave up children to maintain a particular lifestyle. They all fit with the fairy tales. Not just fairy tales but the classic fairy tales. Also the victims, they’re always women, and usually have something to do with Children. Your thoughts?”  
“Sherlock…I think this person might have childhood issues. Abandonment perhaps?”  
“Why would someone have issues from something so long ago?”  
“Not good Sherlock. Rather not good.”

“Sherlock, calm down.”  
Sherlock was back to pacing backwards, forwards and all around 221B.  
“Sherlock.”  
John’s voice had the edge of warning to it, masking a slow building anger. Still, Sherlock kept pacing. The carpet was wearing out from his circuit of the flat.  
“Look, you’ll figure it out. Stop that infernal pacing or I swear to God Sherlock…”  
The pacing continued but at last Sherlock started speaking. It had been two days since the last time that mouth opened but now it was like the floodgates broke and the deductions were flowing fast.  
“Left-handed, can tell from the knife wound. Focuses on young-ish women, between early twenties and thirties, usually have something to do with families and children. Suggests abandonment issues. Fixation on fairy tales. Possible disjointed sense of reality, or false sense of hero-ship. They rid the world of ‘villains’ or at least villains as they see them. But none of the victims show any signs of coercion, no drugs, physical contact, nothing. No reports of strange activities or sightings. The method of killing suggests male, females usually opt for poisons but these are far more aggressive. The possible motive suggests more feminine influence, classical fairy tales, and princesses. Why does this not add up?”  
Sherlock stopped abruptly. His foot began tapping. John took this opportunity to speak.  
“We know a knife was used. If no gun was used then they need another method to get the victims away from public areas. I mean the Taxi Driver drove them elsewhere in a Study in Pink. Maybe the killer lured them away. Pretended to be lost?”  
“That…makes sense. Why didn’t I think of that?”  
“Because you’re Sherlock, you don’t do simple-“ Sherlock opened his mouth to retort “- No, no, don’t be like that. It’s a good thing.”  
John smirked at Sherlock as colour rose to his cheeks. He never could take compliments, even back-handed ones.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like this, probably will be my longest work (at least for a while). Please leave comments on anything I could improve upon, I would appreciate it a lot.


End file.
